Sometimes life pushes you into a corner so tight that you feel the walls closing in.

You start making decisions you never thought you would just to breathe.

And in those moments of desperation, you can either find your ruin or your salvation.

This story is about a man who thought he had everything but [music] was empty inside.

It’s a story about a woman who had nothing but was full of strength.

You are going to feel his panic.

You will feel her pain and you might even get angry.

You will see how a simple lie born from a desperate phone call can spiral into something beautiful and real.

Stay with me because the moment this man sees [music] his house help in a simple cream dress, everything changes.

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Okay, let’s begin.

The humid Port Hardcourt air was thick with the smell of evening rain and exhaust fumes as Victor Bassie stood on the balcony of his duplex in GR phase 3.

The sky was a bruised purple and below the headlights of expensive SUVs and sedans cut through the twilight, their owners returning home to their own quiet kingdoms.

At 35, Victor had built a formidable kingdom for himself.

His oil logistics company, Deltarrest Solutions, was a leader in the region.

He had a brand new Gwagon in the garage next to a practical Praau for his site visits.

The house itself was a monument to his success.

Cool marble floors, minimalist furniture imported from Italy, and a home cinema he hadn’t used in 6 months.

He had everything and he had nothing.

His phone vibrated on the glass table beside him.

The screen lit up with a single word that made his perfectly ordered world feel suddenly fragile.

Mama.

He let it ring, a familiar dread coiling in his stomach.

He took a slow sip of his whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass.

One ring, he could ignore it, say he was in a meeting.

Two rings, he could pretend his phone was on silent.

Three rings.

He knew this was a battle he couldn’t win.

With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of his entire life, he answered, “Good evening, mama.

Victor Michael Bassie.

” The voice was a force of nature, a hurricane of maternal concern and iron willed authority that even a thousand km of telephone line could not diminish.

“So the rumors are not true.

You have not been kidnapped.

You are still breathing God’s air.

” Victor pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes against the oncoming storm.

Mama, good evening.

I’ve just been very busy.

We’re closing a major contract.

Contract.

Contract.

Is that the name of your wife? Is it contract that will give me grandchildren or will you list Delta Crest Solutions as your next of kin? She hissed, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement.

Your mates are dedicating their second and third children in church and you are there dedicating pipelines.

Tell me, Victor, what is wrong with you? This was their routine, a painful dance they performed every few weeks.

But tonight, something in her tone felt different, sharper, more final.

Anyway, she said, her voice dropping ominously.

That is not why I am calling you today.

Here it comes, Victor thought, bracing himself.

I am coming to Port Hardcourt next week, Wednesday.

The ice in his whiskey glass suddenly felt like a block of lead in his stomach.

Ah, mama, this is very short notice.

I have to be in Bonnie Island for a few days for the new project, maybe the week after.

I don’t care if you have a project on the moon.

I am coming and I will not leave until you show me the woman you are going to marry.

Her voice softened but lost none of its steel.

Victor, listen to me.

I had a dream last night.

Your father.

She paused and he knew she was invoking the most powerful weapon in her arsenal.

Your father came to me.

He was not happy.

He asked me why his only son wants to let the Bassie name die.

He built everything for you, for your children.

Who will you leave it to? The government? Mama, please don’t start with this.

I am starting and I am finishing.

I am old, Victor.

My knees ache when it rains and my eyes are not what they used to be.

My only joy now is to see your wife and to carry my grandchild before I join your father.

Is that too much for a mother to ask? The raw emotion in her voice cut through his defenses.

This wasn’t a threat anymore.

It was a plea.

When on Wednesday are you coming? He asked.

His voice resigned.

The driver will bring me.

We will arrive in the afternoon.

And Victor, her voice became dangerously sweet.

If there is no serious woman in that house when I arrive, I am bringing Pastor Ucha’s daughter Veronica with me on my next visit.

The one who just came back from London with a master’s degree and good childbearing hips.

Mama, please.

Good night, my son.

Prepare your house.

Prepare your life.

The line went dead.

Victor stared at the phone.

The silence in his opulent living room suddenly deafening.

The house was perfect, spotless.

Everything was in its place, polished to a sterile shine.

It was a magazine cover, not a home.

It was empty.

He heard a quiet sound from the direction of the kitchen, the soft, rhythmic chop of a knife on a wooden board.

A moment later, Grace Etim appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a clean but faded apron.

Good evening, ogre.

Your dinner is almost ready.

Jolof rice with fried fish.

The way you like it.

Thank you, Grace.

Hold on a minute.

He gestured towards the sofa opposite him.

Please sit down.

She froze, her eyes, usually downcast and focused on her tasks, flickered up to meet his, wide with confusion and a hint of alarm.

In the two years she had worked for him, he had never, not once, asked her to sit in the living room.

She was the help.

Her domain was the kitchen, the laundry room, the spaces he occupied but did not see.

She was meant to be efficient, reliable, and above all, invisible.

“Ogre?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“Please, just for a minute.

I need to ask you something.

” Hesitantly, she perched on the very edge of the leather sofa, her posture rigid like a bird ready to flee at the slightest noise.

She was still in her house clothes, a simple wrapper and a t-shirt.

Her hair was neatly platted in cornrows, practical and unadorned.

At 27, she was not a woman who drew attention.

There was a quiet dignity about her, a stillness that Victor had always mistaken for simplicity.

He realized with a jolt that he knew almost nothing about her.

He knew she was from Aqua Ebomb State.

He knew she sent a significant portion of her salary home every month to support a younger brother in university.

He knew she made the best afang soup in the entire south south region.

And he knew she never ever complained.

He looked at her now truly looked at her and saw not just the help but a woman with her own life, her own worries, her own history.

Grace, I have a very big problem.

he began, the words feeling clumsy in his mouth.

Sorry, Ogre.

My mother is coming to visit on Wednesday.

She is insistent.

She wants to meet my fianceé.

He paused, letting the silence stretch.

The problem is, I don’t have a fiance.

Grace’s expression remained neutral, a carefully constructed mask of polite disinterest.

I see Yoga.

He took a deep breath.

I want you to be my fianceé.

The mask shattered.

Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open slightly.

For a second, he thought she might run.

“Og?” The word was a choked gasp.

“What? What kind of thing is that?” “Not for real,” he said quickly, holding up his hands as if to ward off her suspicion.

“It’s just an act, a performance, like in a Mollywood movie.

My mother will come.

She’ll see you.

She’ll believe I’m serious about settling down, and then she’ll go back to the village happy.

Once she’s gone, everything goes back to normal.

I’ll pay you for your time, for the trouble.

Name your price.

Grace stood up so abruptly, the leather of the sofa squeaked.

Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, a shield against his absurd proposal.

Ogre, with all due respect, I am not that kind of woman.

If you are looking for someone to to do that kind of thing, you can find them anywhere in Port Harkcourt.

But not me.

No, no, you misunderstand me completely.

Victor stood up too, desperate to make her understand.

I’m not asking for that.

I give you my word.

This is strictly business.

I don’t want to touch you.

I just need you to pretend to act the part of a loving fiance in front of my mother.

She stood her ground, her eyes searching his face for the lie, for the hidden motive she was sure was there.

And what if she finds out it’s a lie? She won’t.

You already live here, which makes it believable.

We’ll just have to change the the living arrangements for a while.

Her eyes narrowed.

Change how.

He hadn’t thought this far ahead.

You’ll move into the guest room upstairs.

It has its own bathroom.

My mother can take the other guest room downstairs.

When she’s around, we act.

When she’s not, we are who we are.

Employer and employee.

Grace was quiet for a long, heavy moment.

The only sounds were the hum of the air conditioner and the distant groan of a neighbor’s generator kicking to life.

She was thinking, calculating.

The shame of the proposal wared with the crushing reality of her needs.

Her brother Samuel had just called 2 days ago.

His final year project required materials and fieldwork.

The school fees for his last semester were due.

The total was nearly 300,000 naira.

Her monthly salary was 60,000.

She had saved almost everything for 2 years, but she was still short.

This was a problem money could solve.

His money.

Ogre, how much are you offering? She asked, her voice flat and business-like.

Relief washed over Victor.

How much do you want? She did the math again, adding a little extra for the sheer audacity of the request, for the risk, for the humiliation.

350,000 naira.

Victor almost smiled.

He spent more than that servicing his Gwagon.

Done.

I’ll transfer it to you tomorrow morning.

Half tomorrow, she corrected him, her voice firm.

The other half when your mother leaves.

He was surprised by her shrewdness.

Fair enough.

And let us be very clear, Ogre, she said, looking him directly in the eye.

I will play this part.

I will be your fiance.

I will smile and cook and be respectful, but you will not enter my room and I will not enter yours.

You will not lay a hand on me.

This is a contract, nothing more.

Grace, Victor’s voice was low and serious.

You have my word.

This is business.

She held his gaze for a moment longer, trying to read the truth in his eyes.

In her experience, the words of rich men were written on water.

But in 2 years, Victor had never been inappropriate.

He was demanding, often distant, and lived in a world she couldn’t imagine.

But he had never once looked at her with anything other than professional indifference.

He was a decent man, if a cold one.

“Okay, Ogre,” she said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth.

“Good.

And one more thing, sir.

You can’t call me Ogre or sir anymore.

Not when my mother is around.

It will give the game away instantly.

” A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face.

What should I call you? He hadn’t considered this.

The intimacy of a name.

Victor or darling, maybe.

You know, just when she’s listening.

The word darling hung in the air between them.

Alien and absurd.

Yes, Ogre.

Yes, Victor.

The five days leading up to Wednesday were a blur of frantic preparation and crippling awkwardness.

The first order of business was Grace’s wardrobe.

“You can’t meet my mother dressed in that,” Victor had said, gesturing vaguely at her work clothes.

“It wasn’t unkind, just a statement of fact.

” He transferred the first payment of 175,000 naira as promised, along with an extra 200,000 in cash for the shopping, he’d explained, handing her a thick envelope.

“Buy whatever you need: dresses, shoes, bags, jewelry.

Get your hair done.

I want you to look the part.

Grace stared at the cash in her hands.

It was more money than she had ever held at one time.

It felt dangerous.

She called her friend Joy, who worked as a nanny for a family in the same estate.

They met the next morning at the gates of Rumoro Market.

A sprawling chaotic universe of sound, smell, and color.

“Ah, my sister,” Joy exclaimed, her eyes wide as Grace explained the situation in hushed, urgent tones.

This one is serious Mollywood scriptto.

So this ogre Vic, the one that never smiles, wants to pay you all this money just to pretend.

Are you sure he didn’t put something in your food? Shh, Joy, lower your voice, Grace pleaded, pulling her friend into the crush of the crowd.

Someone might hear you.

Sorry, sorry, Joy said, grinning from ear to ear.

But Grace, this is how these things start.

First it is pretend for my mother.

Next it is, baby.

I can’t live without you.

Stop talking nonsense, Grace retorted.

Though her heart gave a strange flutter.

You know it’s not like that.

These rich men don’t marry girls like us.

They marry daughters of commissioners and oil barons from Leki.

I am a village girl from Ecotene.

I know my station in life and he knows it too.

This is just a transaction.

As soon as his mother leaves, I am back to washing his boxes.

The bluntness of her own words stung.

They navigated the maze of stalls, dodging wheelbarrows and hawkers, yelling, “Buy your fine or creer.

” Joy, who had a flare for fashion, took charge.

“We need to find you something sophisticated,” Joy declared.

“Not what these church mummies wear.

Something that says, “I have money, but I am also a good girl.

” They stopped at a boutique stall run by a large woman with a booming voice and a sharp eye for customers.

My daughters, what are you looking for today? I have original from Turkey.

No fading.

We are looking for classy gowns, Joy announced, adopting an air of importance.

My friend is meeting her future in-laws.

The woman’s eyes scanned grace from head to toe, lingering on her simple slippers and worn handbag.

Her professional smile faltered.

In-laws? Okay, let me show you nice anchor prints.

Very affordable.

No, Grace said, her voice quiet but firm.

I want to see your best English dresses.

something elegant.

The woman raised a skeptical eyebrow, but turned and pulled a few dresses from a rack covered in protective plastic.

The first was a garish green covered in so many sequins it looked like a disco ball.

The second was a tight-fitting red number that left nothing to the imagination.

Something simpler, Grace insisted.

Something a first lady would wear to a state dinner.

The stall owner’s entire demeanor shifted.

This was a language she understood.

The language of serious money.

Ah, why didn’t you say so? You are a serious person.

Wait here.

She vanished into the back of her stall and reemerged with three dresses, each encased in its own garment bag.

She handled them with reverence.

These ones are not for Play customers, direct from a boutique in London.

She unzipped the first bag.

It revealed a deep navy blue dress exquisitely tailored with a modest boat neckline.

The second was a striking emerald green fitted to the waist before flaring out in a graceful a-line.

But it was the third one that took Grace’s breath away.

It was a cream colored dress.

The design was deceptively simple, sleeveless with a high neck and a hem that fell just below the knee.

There were no beads, no sequins, no flashy details.

It didn’t need them.

The quality of the fabric, a heavy luxurious crepe, spoke for itself.

It was a dress that whispered elegance rather than shouting for attention.

Grace reached out a hesitant hand and touched the material.

It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

How much for this one? She whispered.

That one is special.

50,000 naira.

Joy gasped dramatically.

50,000 for one dress.

Is it made from the thread of angels? Quality is not cheap, my dear.

The woman sniffed.

But because I like your friend’s face, I can do 48,000 last price.

Grace thought of the money in her bag.

She had budgeted to spend only a fraction of it on clothes, intending to save the rest for Samuel.

But this dress, this dress was more than just cloth.

It was a costume.

It was armor.

It was a promise of the woman she was supposed to be for the next few days.

I’ll take it, she said, her voice stronger than she felt.

Back in the sanctuary of Victor’s house, Grace laid out her purchases on the bed in the guest room that was now hers.

She had bought the cream dress, two other simpler but still elegant day dresses, a pair of low heels she practiced walking in for an hour, and some understated silver jewelry that Joyce swore looked exactly like the real thing.

That evening, Victor summoned her to the living room for their first rehearsal.

He paced the marble floor like a caged lion while she sat stiffly on the sofa.

My mother is a traditionalist, he began, not looking at her.

She values respect above all else.

A woman who is humble, god-fearing, and knows how to take care of a home.

But she is also incredibly sharp.

She can smell a lie from a mile away.

So, we have to be prepared.

Grace remains silent, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

She will ask questions.

She will try to trip you up.

We need a backstory.

We need to be on the same page.

He stopped pacing and finally looked at her.

So, how did we meet? You were the one writing the script, Ogre, Victor.

He rubbed his temples.

Right.

Okay.

We met at church, Salvation Power Assembly.

My mother loves their pastor.

I attend St.

Dominic’s Catholic Church.

Not anymore.

For the next week, you are a dedicated member of Salvation Power.

We met during the New Year’s Eve crossover service 2 years ago.

And what happened? I saw you singing in the choir.

I was captivated by your voice.

I can’t sing to save my life, she said flatly.

Victor sighed in frustration.

This was harder than he’d imagined.

Fine.

You were an usher.

I was struck by your grace and your dedication to the work of God.

I started attending the midweek service just to get another glimpse of you.

After a month, I finally got the courage to speak to you after a service and I agreed to date you just like that.

No, he said, a small ry smile touching his lips.

You made me chase you for 6 months.

My mother will approve of that.

She believes a woman’s yes should be earned, not given away freely.

Okay.

What else? For the next 2 hours, they built a fictional history.

His favorite food, oh soup, but only with pounded yam, not semo.

The name of his late father, Chief Michael Bassie.

His sister’s name, Esther, married to a banker in Lagos.

His childhood nickname, which only his mother used, Viko.

His university, Uniport Petroleum Engineering.

Grace was a surprisingly quick study, absorbing the details with an intensity that impressed him.

It was the same focus she applied to running his household, a quiet, methodical competence.

“Now, what about you?” he asked, the question suddenly occurring to him.

What is my mother going to know about Grace Atom? He realized with a pang of shame that he had been so focused on manufacturing a story for himself he hadn’t considered hers.

What do you want me to tell her? Grace asked.

The truth is probably best.

The edited version of it at least.

She took a slow breath.

My full name is Grace Abbasi.

I am from Ecot Ekpen in Aqua Ebomb.

My father was a school principal.

He passed away 5 years ago.

My mother is still in the village.

Her health is not very good.

I have one younger brother, Samuel.

He is in his final year at the University of Ouyo, studying education like my father.

Victor was silent, processing this new information.

A school principal’s daughter.

You’re educated then? A shadow passed over her face.

I finished secondary school.

I got admission to study mass communication at the same university, but after my father died, the money wasn’t there.

So, I came to Port Harkort to work.

You ended up here.

It wasn’t an accusation, but it landed like one.

It was the most honest work I could find without a certificate or a long leg to help me, she said, a defensive edge to her voice.

We all have to survive, Victor.

He felt a strange, unfamiliar twist of discomfort.

In 2 years, they had never spoken like this.

He had seen her as a set of functions.

the person who cooked, who cleaned, who ensured his life ran smoothly.

He had never considered the life she’d had to abandon to do so.

“My mother doesn’t need to know you were working in a house,” he said carefully.

“We’ll tell her you work as a receptionist at an accounting firm in the city center.

It’s more respectable.

” “More lies,” she murmured, looking down at her hands.

“It’s not a lie,” he said, trying to convince himself as much as her.

It’s a strategy.

Wednesday arrived with a nervous energy that settled over the house like a thick fog.

Victor had arranged for his driver to bring his mother from their village in Aqua Ebomb.

At precisely 3:45 p.

m.

, a pristine black Toyota Highlander pulled up to the gate.

“She’s here,” Victor said, his voice tight.

He was standing by the large living room window, adjusting the collar of his shirt for the 10th time.

Grace was beside him, a silent statue in one of her new dresses, a simple but elegant floral print gown in shades of blue and white.

Her hair had been professionally styled into a chic braided updo.

The transformation was more than just clothes and hair.

She stood taller, her shoulders back, a borrowed confidence settling over her like a shawl.

“Remember the plan,” Victor whispered, his voice low and urgent.

You adore me.

You can’t wait to be my wife.

And you respect my mother as if she gave birth to you herself.

I remember, she replied, her own voice calm and steady, betraying none of the turmoil inside her.

And don’t overdo it.

My mother is suspicious of anything that looks too perfect.

They walked out to the porch together, a united front, just as the driver opened the rear passenger door.

Madame Beatatrice Bassie emerged from the car not like a woman who had just endured a 4-hour road trip, but like a monarch arriving at a state function.

She was a formidable woman, tall and broad-shouldered, wrapped in expensive George fabric that shimmerred in the afternoon sun.

Her gel was tied in an intricate gravity-deying sculpture.

Her face, though lined with age, was set in an expression of regal authority.

My son, Viko.

She spread her arms and Victor dutifully stepped into her powerful embrace, feeling for a moment like a small boy again.

When she released him, her sharp, intelligent eyes immediately landed on Grace.

It was not a glance.

It was an inspection.

She scanned her from the top of her styled hair to the tip of her new shoes, her gaze lingering for a moment on the simple silver bracelet on Grace’s wrist.

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.

And who is this beautiful young lady? Madame Beatatric asked, her voice deceptively warm.

Mama, this is Grace, my fianceé,” Victor announced, placing a slightly sweaty hand on the small of Grace’s back.

Grace moved forward with a fluidity that surprised Victor.

She gracefully went down on her knees, her head bowed in the traditional sign of respect.

“Good afternoon, Mama.

You are welcome.

I hope your journey was smooth.

” Madame Beatatric’s perfectly drawn eyebrows shot up.

Aen, this one has home training.

Not like these new generation of girls in Lagos that will be shaking your hand like you are their business partner.

She gestured for Grace to stand.

Get up, my daughter.

Grace rose, her eyes meeting the older woman’s.

Thank you, Mama.

So, Grace, Mama continued, her eyes still probing.

Where are your people from? I am from Ecot Mama in Aqua Ebomb.

Aqua Ebomb.

Mama’s nose wrinkled almost imperceptibly.

I see.

Your people cook Edikong Eong with plenty of periwinkle.

Don’t you? It was a test, a subtle culinary landmine.

Periwinkle was more of a calibar thing.

Some do, mama, Grace answered smoothly.

A small differential smile on her lips.

But in my family, my grandmother always said that too much periwinkle distracts from the richness of the water leaf.

We prefer to focus on the fish and meat.

Victor held his breath.

He saw a flicker of something.

Approval, respect in his mother’s eyes.

The slight tension in her shoulders seemed to ease.

Grace had not only answered correctly, she had done so with a story, invoking the wisdom of an elder.

She had passed the first test.

Is that so? Good.

Let’s go inside before this port son boils the sense out of my head.

The first evening was a masterclass in subtle interrogation.

Madame Beatatrice toured the house, running a critical finger over surfaces, peering into closets, and offering a running commentary.

The curtains in the living room were too modern.

No warmth.

The guest room she was given was nice, but the mattress was too firm.

The kitchen was well equipped, but the pots were not arranged properly by size.

“When I come to live here after the first baby is born,” she declared.

“We will make some changes.

” Grace prepared dinner under Mamar’s hawk-like supervision.

She made a fun soup with assorted meat and fufu, a dish she knew was Mama’s favorite.

Every step was a performance.

Mama watched as she pounded the afang leaves, questioned the amount of crayfish she added, and commented on the brand of palm oil she used.

You are putting a lot of crayfish, Mama noted, peering into the pot.

Yes, Mama.

A little extra makes the flavor come alive.

My Victor likes his soup to be thick, not watery.

I know, mama.

He has told me many times.

The lie came easily, smoothly.

At the dinner table, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken questions.

Victor sat at the head with his mother to his right and Grace to his left.

It felt surreal, like a play where they all knew their lines but were terrified of missing a cue.

“So, Grace, my daughter,” Mama began skillfully molding a bowl of fufu.

“Victor tells me you two met in church.

” “Yes, Mama.

at Salvation Power Assembly about 2 years ago now.

And what do you do for work? I’m a receptionist, mama.

I work for an accounting firm downtown.

Which one? Apex Auditors, Grace replied without hesitation, naming a real firm Victor had coached her on.

And the work pays well.

It pays the bills, mama.

But Victor is a wonderful provider.

He insists on taking care of the important things.

It was the perfect answer.

It showed she was independent but also willing to accept her future husband’s role as a provider.

Mama nodded, a small grunt of approval escaping her lips.

And your family? Tell me about your people.

Grace repeated the edited story they had rehearsed.

The late father who was a principal, the unwell mother in the village, the younger brother studying to become a teacher.

She delivered the lines with a quiet sincerity that was utterly convincing.

I see, Mama said, her eyes thoughtful as she dipped her fufu into the soup.

A teacher’s daughter.

That is good.

Teachers value discipline and education.

The meal continued, a delicate dance of questions and carefully crafted answers.

By the time Grace cleared the plates, Victor felt a wave of exhausted relief.

They had survived the first night.

Later, as Grace was heading to her room, Mama stopped her in the hallway.

You handle my son’s house well, she said, her voice softer than before.

Thank you, mama.

I’m just trying my best.

He needs a woman who can manage things.

He is a busy man.

He can be difficult.

She looked at Grace intently.

You love him very much.

Grace’s heart hammered against her ribs.

This was not a question she and Victor had rehearsed.

This was a question of the heart, and she was being asked to lie about its contents.

She thought about the contract, about the money, about her brother.

Then she thought about Victor’s occasional unexpected kindnesses.

The way he’d once insisted she take two days off when he noticed she had a bad cough.

The time he’d quietly added a bonus to her salary at Christmas without saying a word.

“Yes, Mama,” she said, meeting the older woman’s gaze.

“I do.

” For 3 days, the fragile sherad held together, stitched with careful lies and shared nervous glances.

Victor and Grace fell into an unexpectedly easy rhythm.

She would make his coffee in the morning, placing the mug by his hand with a soft, “Good morning, darling,” if Mama was within earshot.

He would place her hand on her shoulder as he left for work, a gesture that felt both staged and strangely natural.

They were good actors, perhaps too good.

The cracks when they appeared were not in their performance, but inside Grace herself.

She started seeing Victor through a different lens.

Not as Ogre, the distant, demanding employer, but as Viko, the son who patiently listened to his mother’s endless stories about relatives she hadn’t seen in years.

She noticed the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he genuinely smiled, a rare event that felt like the sun breaking through clouds.

She heard the passion in his voice when he argued with his mother about the state of the country, a deep frustration with the corruption that held Nigeria back.

And she began to notice the way he looked at her.

Sometimes across the dinner table, she would catch him watching her, an unreadable expression on his face, a mixture of gratitude, curiosity, and something else she couldn’t dare to name.

It’s part of the act, she told herself fiercely, scrubbing a pot in the kitchen until her knuckles were raw.

He’s grateful you’re not messing up his big plan, that’s all.

But was her own performance still just an act when she feigned concern over his stressful day at work? Was it entirely fake? When she smiled at his mother’s praise of her cooking, was the warmth she felt just for show? The line between Grace the househelp and Grace the fiance was beginning to blur and it terrified her.

On the fourth night a Saturday, Mamar dropped a bombshell over dessert.

I have wonderful news, she announced, her face glowing.

I was speaking with your auntie in Abuja today and she told me that your cousin David is in Port Hardcourt.

He came for a conference.

I have invited him and his wife for dinner tomorrow night.

Is that not wonderful? a chance for him to finally meet your grace.

The slice of cake in Victor’s mouth turned to sawdust.

Mama, why would you do that without asking me first? Ask you what? Should I ask for permission for my own nephew to visit his cousin? David has not seen you in years.

It is a perfect opportunity.

We should have prepared, Grace said, her voice tight, trying to sound like a concerned hostess and not a panicked conspirator.

I would have cooked a special meal.

Nonsense, Mama waved a dismissive hand.

We will order from Madame Caro’s kitchen down the road.

Her jolof rice is legendary.

I have already called her.

Mama, Victor said, his voice strained with suppressed anger.

This is not right.

You can’t just invite people to my house.

your house or is it our house? Mama’s eyes narrowed, a silent challenge passing between them.

Is there some reason you don’t want your own family to meet the woman you claim you are going to marry? The accusation hung in the air heavy and suffocating.

Of course not, mama.

Grace jumped in, her voice smooth as silk.

We would be delighted to host them.

It will be lovely to finally meet more of Victor’s family.

How many people should we expect? Mama’s triumphant smile returned.

Just David and his wife Rose.

Such a sweet girl.

So that is four of us.

Simple, simple, Grace thought.

There was nothing simple about fooling two more pairs of eyes, two more people who had known Victor his entire life.

Later that night, after Mama had retired to her room, Victor found Grace in the kitchen staring into the dark, empty garden.

The dishes were done, the counters were wiped clean, but she stood there rigid and still.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, coming to stand beside her.

She didn’t look at him.

I’m fine, Victor.

You’re not fine.

You’re as tense as a guitar string.

I’m worried, she admitted, turning off the small kitchen light so they were standing at near darkness.

Your mother is one thing.

She wants to believe this, but a cousin, his wife, they will have no reason to believe.

They will ask questions we haven’t prepared for.

He moved a step closer.

The scent of his cologne, a subtle, expensive mix of sandalwood and something citrusy, filled the small space between them.

We’ll handle it.

You’ve been amazing so far.

Better than I ever could have hoped.

Have I? She finally turned to face him.

In the faint moonlight filtering through the window, he could see the exhaustion etched on her face.

Or have I just been a good employee following your instructions? It’s more than that, and you know it.

What happens when this is over, Victor? She asked, her voice a raw whisper.

When your mother leaves and your cousin has been fooled, what happens then? Do you just hand me the rest of my money and point me back to the boy’s quarters? Do I go back to being the person you don’t see? The question struck him with the force of a physical blow.

He had been so consumed by the logistics of the lie of managing his mother, of getting through the next few days, that he had never once thought about the after.

He had assumed, without considering the human cost, that everything would simply snap back into place, that Grace would go back to being his invisible, efficient househelp.

But looking at her now, seeing the hurt and fear in her eyes, he realized how naive that was.

You couldn’t ask someone to play the part of the love of your life and expect them to emerge unchanged.

He couldn’t emerge unchanged.

Grace, I don’t.

She cut him off, her voice trembling slightly.

Don’t say anything.

It was a stupid question.

I know the terms of our arrangement.

She slipped past him, a fleeting shadow in the dark, and disappeared down the hall to her room, leaving him alone in the kitchen with the weight of her question pressing down on him.

Sunday dinner arrived, not with the warmth of a family gathering, but with the chilling tension of a high stakes interrogation.

Victor’s cousin, David, was a loud, backs slapping man who seemed to take up all the air in the room.

He was a successful contractor, and he wore his wealth like a badge of honor, a chunky gold watch, a designer shirt, and a booming laugh that grated on Victor’s nerves.

His wife, Rose, was the opposite.

She was petite, immaculately dressed, and moved with a quiet, watchful grace.

Her smile was sweet, but her eyes were sharp and missed nothing.

“She was,” Victor realized with a sinking heart, far more dangerous than his mother.

“Vico, my man,” David boomed, pulling Victor into a hug that threatened to crack his ribs.

“Look at you.

Port Harkord is treating you well.

You’ve even added weight.

” “David, it’s good to see you.

” Victor managed, extracting himself.

Rose’s gaze had already locked onto Grace.

“And you must be Grace,” she said, her voice like honeyed venom.

“Auntie Beatrice has told us so much about you.

We’ve all been so eager to meet the woman who finally captured our victor’s heart.

” Grace offered a polite smile, her own carefully constructed mask of calm firmly in place.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Rose.

I’ve heard wonderful things.

” Oh, I’m sure you have, Rose replied, her smile never faltering as her eyes did a swift, comprehensive sweep of Grace’s outfit.

Auntie mentioned you work as a receptionist at Apex Auditors.

Yes, that’s right.

What a coincidence.

My very good friend from university, Mary Akan, is a senior manager there.

I’m sure you must know her.

Checkmate.

Grace’s blood turned to ice.

It was a trap so perfectly and swiftly laid that she had no time to think.

She could feel Victor tense beside her.

She could feel Mama Beatrice watching.

“The name is very familiar,” Grace said, her mind racing.

She chose her words with deliberate care.

“It’s a large firm, though.

The administrative staff on the ground floor don’t often interact with the senior managers upstairs unless it’s official business.

” It was a plausible deflection, but Rose’s smile tightened.

She knew she’d scored a hit.

Of course, still, I must connect you two.

Mary is always complaining about how hard it is to make friends at work.

You must give me your number later.

Of course, Grace agreed, feeling the ground crumble beneath her feet.

The dinner, catered by Madame Caro, was delicious, but Grace tasted none of it.

She felt like a witness in the dock being cross-examined by a merciless prosecutor.

David was easy enough to handle.

His interests were limited to business, football, and bragging about his latest contract with the state government.

He and Victor fell into a deep discussion about the fluctuating price of diesel, leaving Grace exposed to Rose.

“So, Grace,” Rose began daintily picking at her jolof rice.

“Where did you do your youth service? Your NYC?” “I I wasn’t able to do the service,” Grace answered quietly.

A beat of silence.

In their circle, not doing NYC was a red flag.

It meant you either didn’t graduate from a higher institution or you had a problem.

Oh.

Rose’s eyebrows lifted in perfectly fained surprise.

Why was that? Grace felt the heat of humiliation creep up her neck.

She could feel Mama’s attention shift back to her, her earlier approval now tinged with confusion.

It was a difficult time for my family, Grace said, her voice low.

My father had just passed away and my younger brother was starting university.

I had to work to support my mother and him.

There was no money for my own education then.

Oh, you poor thing.

Rose cooed her sympathy as fake as her eyelashes.

So, you never attended university at all? No, Grace said, the word feeling like a confession of failure.

And yet, you landed a receptionist job at a top auditing firm like Apex.

That’s very impressive.

They usually require at least a bachelor’s degree, even for front desk staff.

The implication was clear.

How did a secondary school lever like you get a job like that? The silence around the table was thick with unspoken judgment.

Grace could feel the careful edifice of her borrowed identity collapsing around her.

She was no longer Victor’s elegant, educated fianceé.

She was an impostor, a house girl playing dress up, and everyone at the table could now see the shabby reality beneath the costume.

It was Mama Beatatrice who broke the tension.

She cleared her throat loudly, drawing all eyes to her.

“A university degree does not make a good wife,” she announced, her voice firm.

“My own mother never stepped foot in a school, but she raised five successful children and managed my father’s business better than any man.

” “A woman’s value is in her character, her wisdom, and her heart, not in a piece of paper.

” Grace felt a surge of gratitude so intense it brought tears to her eyes.

Mama had defended her.

“Of course, auntie,” Rose said quickly, retreating.

“I meant no offense at all.

I was just admiring her resilience.

” “The conversation stumbled on, but the mood had irrevocably shifted.

The warmth was gone, replaced by a cool, polite distance.

When David and Rose finally left, their goodbyes were ausive, but their eyes were cold.

As soon as their car’s tail lights disappeared down the street, Mama wordlessly stood up and went to her room, closing the door with a quiet click that sounded as loud as a gunshot.

Victor and Grace were left alone in the wreckage of the evening.

The smell of expensive perfume and savory rice still hung in the air, a mockery of the failed celebration.

That, Grace said, her voice brittle, was an unmitigated disaster.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Victor started, but she cut him off.

Don’t.

Please don’t patronize me.

She held up a shaking hand.

Your cousin’s wife saw right through me.

She looked at me and saw exactly what I am.

By morning, every auntie and uncle in your family will have received a full report.

Victor’s new girl has no degree, no NYSC, and a story that doesn’t add up.

You are not a story that doesn’t add up.

I am a maid pretending to be a receptionist.

What else would you call it? She shot back, her voice rising.

She began to clear the table, her movements sharp and angry, the plates clattering against each other.

I should have asked for more money.

350,000 is not enough to pay for this level of shame.

I’ll give you more money, Grace.

That’s not the issue.

That is not the point.

She spun around to face him, her eyes blazing with unshed tears.

The point is that your money can’t buy me a degree.

It can’t buy me a different family background.

It can’t turn me into the kind of woman that a man like you is supposed to marry.

My family just wants me to be happy, he argued, taking a step towards her.

Your family wants you to marry a woman from your world.

Someone who can discuss stock portfolios and summer holidays in Dubai.

Someone with a pedigree.

She let out a short bitter laugh.

And what am I? I’m the girl who knows exactly how you like your starch.

The girl who scrubs your toilets and washes your clothes.

That is the truth of who I am to you.

All of this,” she gestured around the beautifully decorated room.

“This is just a costume party and it’s over.

” He reached for her, but she pulled away as if his touch might burn her.

“Don’t touch me,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“Please.

” She turned and fled to her room, leaving Victor standing alone amidst the dirty dishes and the ghost of a dinner party that had exposed the ugly truth of their lie.

The following morning was a Sunday, heavy with the oppressive silence of the night before.

At breakfast, Mama Beatatrice announced her plans with a forced cheerfulness that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“We are all going to church this morning,” she declared.

“I want to visit this salvation power assembly and see the place where God brought my children together.

” Grace’s stomach plummeted.

Church meant facing a crowd.

It meant more public performance when all she wanted to do was hide.

But refusing was not an option.

She nodded meekly and escaped to her room to get ready.

She stood before the small wardrobe in her guest room.

Her sanctuary that was beginning to feel like a prison.

She had worn her two other dresses.

The only one left was the cream one, the expensive one.

The one she had bought feeling audacious and hopeful, a feeling that now seemed like a distant memory.

Well, she thought with a grim sense of irony, I might as well go down in flames looking my best.

She took the dress out of its protective bag and slipped it on.

She had tried it on in the market, of course, but in a cramped, poorly lit changing room with a cracked mirror, now standing before the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door, with the morning sun streaming into the room, she saw it and herself properly for the first time.

The effect was breathtaking.

The heavy cream crepe fabric fell over her body as if it had been woven just for her.

It wasn’t tight, but it skimmed her curves in a way that was modest yet undeniably feminine.

The simple, elegant cut made her look taller, more poised.

The color complimented her dark skin, giving it a warm, luminous glow.

This was not grace, the house help.

This was not the girl who felt shame over her lack of a university degree.

The woman in the mirror was a stranger, a graceful, confident, beautiful woman.

She turned slowly, watching the way the fabric swirled around her knees, the way the light played on its rich texture.

She saw not the sum of her disadvantages, but the ghost of her potential.

A sharp knock on the door startled her out of her revery.

Grace, are you ready? My mother is getting impatient.

We need to leave in.

The door swung open and Victor stopped, his words dying in his throat.

He just stood there in the doorway and stared.

Grace felt a blush creep up her neck, a heat that spread through her entire body.

She suddenly felt exposed, vulnerable.

“I know,” she stammered, her hands fluttering nervously at her sides.

“It’s too much for church.

It’s too flashy.

I’ll change.

I’ll wear the blue one again.

” “No.

” The word was raspy, strangled.

He cleared his throat and tried again.

“No, don’t change.

You look.

” He trailed off unable to find the right word.

Beautiful felt too small.

Stunning felt too cliche.

He was looking at the woman he had seen every single day for 2 years.

And yet, he was seeing her for the very first time.

It wasn’t just the dress.

The dress was a catalyst, an outward manifestation of an inner light he had been too blind to see.

He saw the quiet dignity she always carried.

the resilience that had allowed her to face his cousin’s cruelty without breaking down.

The intelligence that had allowed her to master a complex web of lies in a matter of days.

He saw not the circumstances of her life, but the unwavering strength of her character.

He had hired her to play a role.

He had given her a costume and a script.

But standing there bathed in the morning light, she was not playing a part.

She was simply breathtakingly herself.

And in that moment of blinding clarity, Victor realized with a certainty that shook him to his core, that somewhere between the business deal and the family dinner, his own pretense had evaporated.

“He wasn’t acting anymore.

” “We should go,” Grace said, her voice a near whisper, breaking the spell.

“Your mother will be waiting.

” “Yes,” he replied, his own voice.

“Right, we should go.

” But for a long moment, neither of them moved.

The drive to Salvation Power Assembly was charged with a new unspoken tension.

Mama sat in the front seat, oblivious, keeping up a steady stream of chatter about the church’s famous choir and the pastor’s anointing.

In the back, Victor and Grace sat on opposite sides of the leather seat, not touching, not speaking, but intensely aware of each other.

The air between them crackled with the aftershock of the moment in her room, a moment that had changed the very nature of their arrangement.

The church was a massive auditorium pulsating with energy.

As they walked in, a wave of whispers followed them.

Victor Bassie was a well-known member, a big boy in the church, respected for his generous tithes and quiet influence.

To see him walk in with an unknown, stunningly beautiful woman on his arm was major news.

Who is that with brother Victor? Is that his new girlfriend? She must be from a good family.

Look at how she carries herself.

Grace heard the murmurss, but for the first time she didn’t flinch.

In the cream dress, with Victor’s hand resting lightly on her back, she felt a strange sense of belonging.

Today, she would not be an impostor.

Today, she would inhabit this role, this life, completely just for a few hours.

The service was a blur of exuberant singing, fervent prayers, and passionate declarations.

The music was infectious, and despite herself, Grace found her spirit lifting.

She thought of her small Catholic church back home, of the quiet hymns and solemn rituals.

This was different, louder, more emotional.

But the core of it, the raw human longing for hope, for grace, for a love that transcends circumstances, was the same.

The pastor, a charismatic man with a booming voice, took the pulpit.

His sermon was on the theme of divine transformation.

Somebody here feels like you are in the wrong story, he thundered, his voice echoing through the auditorium.

The world has given you a label.

They look at you and they see failure.

They see poor.

They see uneducated.

But God does not see your history.

He sees your destiny.

You might be a servant in the eyes of man today, but God sees a king.

You might feel like a housemmaid today, but I am here to tell you that God sees a queen.

Grace froze at the word housemaid.

It felt like a spotlight had been shown directly on her, exposing her secret to the entire congregation.

It was a coincidence, a random choice of words, but it struck her with the force of a prophecy.

Beside her, Victor’s hand found hers.

She flinched, startled by the contact.

His fingers wrapped around hers, warm and firm.

She looked up at him, but his eyes were fixed on the pastor, his expression intense.

He didn’t let go.

His thumb moved in a slow, reassuring circle over her knuckles.

And for the rest of the sermon, as the pastor preached about breaking free from the world’s limitations, they sat there hand in hand, a silent confession passing between them.

That evening, the fragile piece that had settled over the house was shattered by Mama Beatatrice.

“I have seen what I needed to see,” she announced, her voice filled with a satisfaction that made Victor’s blood run cold.

They were in the living room having a cup of tea after dinner.

Grace, my daughter, you are a good girl.

You are respectful.

You are God-fearing, and you have a good heart.

My son has chosen well.

Grace murmured a quiet, “Thank you, Mama,” her eyes darting nervously towards Victor.

“Therefore,” Mama continued, setting her teacup down with a decisive click.

“There is no reason to delay any longer.

I am going back to the village tomorrow, but before I go, we must set a date for the introduction ceremony.

” The silence in the room was absolute.

“A date?” Victor echoed, his voice strained.

“Yes, a date.

Your traditional marriage rights to begin.

I am thinking July.

It gives both families enough time to prepare, but it is not so far away that people will start gossiping.

” She beamed at them.

“What do you say? Is July a good month for you?” Grace looked at Victor, her eyes wide with panic.

He looked back at her, and in that single shared glance, the full weight of their deception came crashing down upon them.

They had built a house of cards, and a hurricane was approaching.

“Mama,” Victor began, his voice raspy.

“There’s something we need to discuss.

” “July sounds wonderful, Mama.

” Grace interrupted smoothly, cutting him off.

Her voice was calm, but Victor, who was now attuned to her every nuance, saw the frantic terror in her eyes.

But perhaps we should discuss the specific details tomorrow morning before you leave.

Just the three of us.

It is a big decision and we should not rush it tonight.

Mama’s smile widened.

You see, Victor, this is a sensible woman, she thinks ahead.

Very good.

We will talk in the morning, but my mind is set on July.

With that, she finished her tea, bid them good night, and retired to her room, leaving a trail of impending doom in her wake.

The moment her door clicked shut, Victor turned on Grace.

“What was that? Why did you agree with her?” “I was buying us time,” she whispered fiercely, rising from her seat to pace the room.

She was about to start calling the entire village to announce the date.

“What was I supposed to do?” “She has a date now, July.

” “Grace, that’s less than 4 months away.

This has gone too far.

We have to tell her the truth.

” “I know,” she said, her voice dropping, all the fight going out of her.

She stopped pacing and wrapped her arms around herself.

I know, but let her have one more night of happiness.

Let her sleep well, believing her son has found a good wife.

Tomorrow, before she leaves, you can tell her me.

Why do I have to be the one to tell her? Because she is your mother,” Grace said, her voice weary.

because this entire ridiculous plan was your idea and because her voice broke and she turned away from him because I don’t think I have the strength to tell her that none of it was real.

Not for me.

Victor stared at her back, his heart constricting in his chest.

What are you trying to say, Grace? I’m saying this has to end, she said, turning back to face him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

When she leaves tomorrow, I have to leave, too.

I’ll pack my things.

You can give me the rest of my money and I will disappear.

I’ll go back to being Grace Etim, the girl looking for a job, not Grace Bassie, the makebelieve fiance.

You can’t leave, he said, the words coming out before he could stop them.

I have to.

It was a wonderful dream, Victor, getting to wear nice dresses and pretend to be loved.

But I have to wake up now before I forget what is real and what is a performance.

She made a move to walk past him, but he reached out and gently took her arm, stopping her.

“Grace, wait.

Please let me go.

” “No, not until you listen to me.

” He turned her to face him, his hands holding her upper arms, his gaze intense.

“The deal was for me to pay you to pretend.

I know that, but for me, the pretending stopped.

” She stared at him, her lips parted in disbelief.

“What? This morning?” he said, his voice low and urgent.

When I saw you in your room in that cream dress, it was like a switch flipped inside me.

Something I have been ignoring, something I have been pushing down, it just broke.

He let go of her and ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

I’ve been lying to myself, telling myself this feeling is just because we’re in this situation, because of the proximity.

But it’s not.

It’s real.

When I look at you, I don’t see my house help.

I don’t see a fake fiance.

I see you, and I want to get to know the real you.

Tears began to trace silent paths down her cheeks.

Victor, be serious.

We are from two different worlds.

I’m a secondary school lever.

Your family, your friends.

They will never accept me.

To hell with my family and friends, he said with a passion that startled them both.

This is not about them.

This is about us right here, right now.

I am asking you, Grace.

Not what you think I want to hear.

Not what you think is practical.

Tell me what you want.

She was silent for a long, heart-wrenching moment.

Her entire future balanced on the edge of her next words.

Then, so quietly he had to lean in to hear her, she whispered, “I want it to be real.

” The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, Victor sat his mother down in the living room.

Grace was still in her room and he knew he had to do this alone.

He took a deep breath and without preamble, he told her everything.

He confessed the entire sorded tale, the panic after her phone call, the desperate and transactional proposal to Grace, the money, the coaching sessions, the carefully constructed lies.

He told her about the disastrous dinner with David and Rose, and the humiliation Grace had endured.

And then he told her about the moment in the bedroom, about the cream dress, and about the earthshattering realization that the woman he was meant to be with had been living under his roof, invisible to him for 2 years.

He laid his folly in his heart bare before her.

When he finished, the room was silent.

Madame Beatatrice sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap, her expression unreadable.

She stared at a point on the wall just past his shoulder and for a long terrifying minute she said nothing.

Victor braced himself for the explosion, for the disappointment, for the condemnation he knew he deserved.

And then to his utter astonishment, his mother began to laugh.

It started as a low chuckle, then grew into a deep rolling belly laugh that shook her entire frame.

She laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks, dabbing at them with the edge of her wrapper.

Mama? Victor asked completely bewildered.

What’s so funny? Oh, Viko, my son, she said, finally catching her breath.

You children of this generation, you think you are so clever.

You think your old mothers are blind and foolish.

She shook her head, still chuckling.

Did you really think I didn’t know? Victor’s jaw dropped.

You You knew? From the very first day, she said, her expression turning serious.

My son, I carried you in my womb for 9 months.

I know you better than you know yourself.

I know when you are telling the truth and I know when you are acting a script.

The way you two looked at each other.

It was not the look of a man and woman deeply in love.

It was the look of two people trying very hard to convince an old woman they were in love.

But then why did you play along? Why didn’t you expose us? Because I was watching, she said, her eyes sharp.

I was not watching you.

I know you.

I was watching her.

I wanted to see the character of the woman my foolish son had chosen for this drama.

And do you know what I saw? She leaned forward, her voice dropping.

I saw a young woman who treated you with a wife’s care, who defended your name with a wife’s loyalty, who endured humiliation for your sake, with a wife’s strength.

She lied for you.

She cooked for you.

She honored you all for a paycheck.

Imagine what she would do for you for love.

But I paid her to do all that.

Victor argued weakly.

Money can buy service, Viko.

It cannot buy character, his mother said firmly.

That girl has been in love with you for a long time.

She just didn’t have the words or the permission to feel it.

This ridiculous plan of yours gave her that permission.

He sat back, stunned into silence by her wisdom.

“Mama, she was my househel.

What will the family say?” “So what?” she retorted.

“Your great-g grandandmother was the daughter of a poor fisherman.

No one remembers that now.

They only remember that she was a strong woman who gave birth to a lineage of kings.

Do not build your life on the shifting sands of public opinion.

Build it on the solid rock of a good woman’s character.

She stood up smoothing down her rapper.

You want to marry that girl? Then you have my blessing.

A mother knows.

I saw her in that church yesterday.

I saw the way God’s light shines on her.

She is your wife.

You really mean that? I don’t waste my breath on things I don’t mean.

She started to walk towards her room to finish packing, then paused at the door.

But there is one condition.

What is it, mama? The traditional marriage.

July is still a good month, but you will pay for everything.

Her family is not to spend one single naira.

You will pay the bride price.

You will pay for the food, the drinks, the canopies, everything.

It is the least you can do after treating your future wife like a common servant for 2 years.

When Grace finally emerged from her room, her bag packed, her face a mask of resigned sorrow, she found Victor waiting for her.

Mama Beatrice was gone.

The driver had picked her up an hour ago.

So, Grace said, avoiding his eyes.

You told her.

I did.

I can only imagine how angry she is.

How disappointed.

She wasn’t angry.

Grace finally looked up.

She laughed.

Victor said, a small smile playing on his lips.

She said she knew all along.

She said she was testing us.

And apparently we passed.

We passed.

Grace whispered bewildered.

But she knows everything.

That I was your househel.

That I don’t have a degree.

She knows that you have character.

Victor said, closing the distance between them.

He gently took her hands in his.

They were cool and trembling.

She said, “That’s all that matters to her.

” And Grace, that is all that matters to me.

He looked directly into her eyes.

My mother gave us her blessing, a real blessing for a real marriage.

Her knees felt weak.

Victor, this is crazy.

I can’t I don’t know how to be the wife of a man like you.

I don’t know how to talk to your important friends.

I don’t know which fork to use at those fancy restaurants you go to.

Then I will teach you, he said softly.

Or better yet, we will learn together.

I don’t know how to be a good husband, but I want to learn with you.

People will whisper, she said, her voice full of doubt.

Your cousin Rose will make it her life’s mission to make me miserable.

He laughed, a genuine free sound.

Rose makes everyone miserable.

It is her hobby.

You survived her once.

You can survive her again.

You are so much stronger than you think you are.

Grace was quiet, the mind reeling, trying to process the impossible turn of events.

Then a slow, tentative smile began to spread across her face.

“So, let me understand this,” she said, a playful light entering her eyes for the first time.

You hired me for 350,000 naira to be your fake fiance and now you are asking me to be your real wife for free.

He grinned back at her.

Well, I was rather hoping the love part would be sufficient compensation.

She tapped her chin thoughtfully.

Love does not pay for my brother’s final year project.

Okay, you win, he conceded, laughing.

I will pay for Samuel’s project.

I will pay for his master’s degree if he wants one.

I will send a monthly stipen to your mother in the village and get her the best doctors in Ouyo.

But the position of wife is not salaried.

That, my dear Grace, must be from the heart.

She pretended to mull it over.

And this house, I’m assuming the wife doesn’t sleep in the guest room.

The wife, he said, pulling her closer, sleeps in the master bedroom, our room.

And the wife does not cook and clean all day.

The wife gets to hire a proper cook and a cleaner.

Two of each if you want.

And she said, her voice becoming serious.

The wife wants to go back to school.

The wife wants to get her degree.

His expression softened.

I’ve already thought of that.

I was thinking you could enroll at the University of Port Harkort in the next academic session.

You can study mass communication just like you always wanted.

Tears sprang to her eyes again, but this time they were tears of joy.

“You thought of all that before I even said yes?” “I was hopeful,” he whispered, his thumb gently stroking her cheek.

“I was praying you would say yes.

” “She didn’t need any more convincing.

” She threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder.

“Yes,” she muffled into his shirt.

“A thousand times? Yes.

” 6 months later, the sleepy town of Ekot Ekpen was alive with a celebration the likes of which it had not seen in decades.

The compound of Grace’s family home was a sea of colorful canopies filled with the sounds of laughter, music, and joyous celebration.

Grace’s mother, looking healthier and happier than she had in years thanks to the excellent medical care Victor had arranged, sat on a chair of honor, beaming with pride.

Samuel, now a university graduate, stood tall and proud beside his sister, acting as the man of the house.

Victor’s family had arrived in a convoy of cars from all over the country.

Even cousin Rose was there, her smile tight, but her behavior impeccably polite, having been given a stern warning by Mama Beatrice.

The traditional marriage ceremony was a beautiful tapestry of culture and love.

Palm wine was presented and accepted.

Prayers were offered by the elders of both families.

The bride price, a token amount since Victor had already fulfilled his mother’s command to bear all costs, was paid with great fanfare.

Grace was radiant.

She wore a stunning custom-made traditional outfit of gold and cream lace, a subtle homage to the dress that had changed her destiny.

As she moved through the crowd, she was no longer a woman playing a part.

She was a queen in her own right, confident and beloved.

When the time came for the final right, for her to find her husband in the crowd and offer him the symbolic cup of palm wine, her eyes found him instantly.

He was sitting with his family, looking handsome and slightly nervous in his own traditional attire.

She moved towards him with regal grace, the crowd parting before her, their cheers and ulations filling the air.

Her best friend, Joy, who was her maid of honor, was sobbing with happiness.

Grace knelt before Victor, offering him the carved wooden cup.

My husband, she said, her voice clear and strong for all to hear.

I bring you this wine as a symbol of my heart.

Drink and let our lives be joined as one.

Victor took the cup, his eyes locked on hers, and drank deeply.

The crowd erupted.

He helped her to her feet and disregarding protocol, pulled her into a fierce embrace.

“I love you, Grace Abasi Bassie,” he whispered for her ears only.

I love you too, Victor Michael Barcie,” she whispered back.

But for the record, I’m still keeping the 350, consider it payment for emotional distress.

He threw his head back and laughed, the deep, free, joyful laugh she had fallen in love with, and kissed her right there in front of God and all their people.

The golden light of the late afternoon slanted through the window of their new, larger home in another, more serene part of Gr.

Grace sat on a plush rug in the nursery, building a tower of colorful blocks with her one-year-old daughter, a bubbly, brighteyed girl they had named Hope.

So much had changed, yet the core of her happiness remained the same.

She was Mrs.

Grace Basibbasi, but she was also a final year student of mass communication at Uniport, consistently one of the top students in her class.

The dream she had been forced to abandon was now her reality.

Her brother Samuel was now the head teacher at a prestigious private school in Ouyo.

Her mother lived comfortably in the new bungalow they had built for her in the village.

Joy, with a small business loan from Victor, had opened a successful catering business and was now a sought- after event planner in Port Harkort.

The nursery door opened softly and Victor walked in looking tired but happy after a long day at the office.

He loosened his tie as he came to sit on the rug beside them, his eyes lighting up as he looked at his daughter.

“She has your smile,” he said softly, tickling Hope’s chin.

“And she has your stubborn refusal to go to sleep on time,” Grace retorted with a grin.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, a family unit complete and content.

The block tower crashed down and Hope squealled with delight, clapping her chubby hands.

“Grace,” Victor said, his voice quiet.

M I don’t think I ever properly thanked you.

She looked at him puzzled.

For what? For saying yes.

Not the first time in the living room when it was just a business deal, but the second time in the kitchen when it was real.

Grace reached over and placed her hand over his.

Do you know what’s funny? I used to be so ashamed of how our story started.

With a lie, with a contract.

She looked down at their intertwined hands, then at their daughter.

But I realize now that it wasn’t a lie.

It was just the truth, trying to find its way out.

“You didn’t hire a fake wife, Victor.

You just finally saw the real one.

” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

“I paid for a performance,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

“And in return, I got a life.

I will forever be in your debt.

” I know, Grace said, her eyes twinkling.

And I’ll be sending you the invoice.

He laughed, and Hope laughed with him, a pure, happy sound that filled the room in their hearts.

Grace looked at her husband and her daughter, and a wave of gratitude so profound washed over her.

She had arrived in this city with nothing but a worn out bag and a desperate heart.

And now she had everything that mattered.